Clawed
by ZoZo
Summary: There is more to Sabretooth than meets the eye... *Slash, violence and lots of angst*
1. Part 1

Victor Creed was a lonely, lonely man. He had built up, over the years, an image of a man who didn't need anybody, but the truth was, he did. In fact, it was a very specific somebody. The idea of relying on somebody else to remain happy was an idea which had always repelled Victor, but it was just this which was tearing him up.  
  
Every day was the same. He would be Sabretooth. Victor Creed was dead; it was only Sabretooth. How could Victor Creed exist when he was so weak? Victor Creed was hung up on a certain someone, while Sabretooth was powerful. Victor Creed cried into his pillow at night over a love that could never be requited. Sabretooth would never shed tears, especially not over love, which didn't exist anyway.  
  
But Sabretooth could not completely eclipse Victor. While Sabretooth did anything Magneto asked, there were times when Victor-thoughts shone through. He became destructive. That was expected. He had a reputation for throwing rages and smashing everything around him up. A mirror could be broken in a way which looked entirely as if it had merely been destroyed in his anger, when in fact it was his first port of call. Victor hated the sight of himself. Hated the hair. Hated the teeth. Hated the face. How could anyone ever love him?  
  
And then there was the self destruction. Simple things; riding too fast on his motorbike. Drinking too much. Cutting. None of these held any real bearing due to Victor's powers. Fucking healing ability. It could have all ended so much earlier if it wasn't for that. A little accidental death.  
  
Perhaps slain by Wolverine.  
  
Ha. That would be ironic.  
  
Wolverine was precisely the cause of Victor's misery at this very moment in time. It wasn't down to their feud, which had been going on for so long that even Victor forgot what the cause was. In fact it was quite the opposite. Victor had become obsessed with Wolverine. It was no longer that fanatical urge to kill; quite the opposite. Victor wanted to wake up in those strong arms, and kiss that angry little face. The feeling permeated every bone in his body, something the healing factor could not fix. Victor Creed, in love with his enemy. It would have been laughable were it not so devastating.  
  
Of all the people to be in love with, why Wolverine?  
  
Victor had no idea. He hadn't asked for it to happen. It just had. Somewhere between all those mindless battles, he had fallen in love. And suddenly, when leaping on top of the guy, he had wanted to kiss him, not kill him. But then there was the desire to kill the thing he loved the most. That would be the only way to end these feelings. No more Logan, no more feeling like such a fool. He could hardly be in love if there was nothing to be in love with.  
  
Victor tried his hardest to stop these circular thoughts. Once again they were attacking; they always did as he tried to fall asleep. The face haunting his thoughts. So beautiful. So completely out of reach. If Wolverine could see him now, he would laugh. Pathetic, pathetic Victor Creed. Sad little Victor Creed who was crying again.  
  
Men didn't cry. Only faggots cried.  
  
And here was Victor Creed sobbing like a little baby girl into his pillow. Over Logan.  
  
The rage was boiling up in him yet again, and he knew it would only be a matter of time before he would have to break something. And there wasn't much left to break in Victor's little rented room. In fact, he was sleeping under his coat on the floor, as in a previous rage, he had completely eviscerated the bed. The cupboard door was hanging off, not that there had been much in it in the first place. There was a huge crack in the window. A hole in the wall where he had punched it.  
  
But rage does not see past these silly little details. Victor rose from his spot on the floor and took out all the hate inside him on the small hot plate on which he warmed up his tins of spaghetti. The thing was in absolute pieces by the time he was done kicking it.  
  
It was only afterwards, sitting, spent, on the floor, panting hard, that Victor was cross with himself. Now he would be stuck eating cold food. His deaf landlady would one day come up to the room and notice what a mess he had made. He would be thrown out. Homeless and miserable. Magneto didn't give a shit. Nowhere to live. This dump was cold, but at least it was a roof over his head.  
  
With these normal worries, Victor fell asleep. He was plagued, as always, by dreams of his love, and woke up many times in the night aroused, fearful, happy, and angry.  
  
Next morning, he breakfasted on a cold tin of spaghetti, for that was the only food he ever seemed to have in his dank little room. He left his room, as usual, and was stopped, as usual, by Mrs P.  
  
"Good morning, Victor," she said.  
  
"Morning, Mrs P.," he replied.  
  
"Did you sleep well, Victor?"  
  
"Like a log," Victor lied effortlessly. It was the same every morning. She never could hear him anyway.  
  
"That's a pity, go and see my doctor. He could give you something for that, Victor. And then you can sleep well."  
  
"Thank you, Mrs P. I'll keep that in mind."  
  
"No, no, please give it a try."  
  
"Bye, Mrs P. I'm off to work."  
  
And so, another day of the pathetic life of Victor Creed. 


	2. Part 2

Logan slipped out in the morning for painkillers. He had a pig of a hangover, something which his healing powers would not cure. Only industrial strength painkillers could stop the throbbing headache, it was a feeling he knew well. Perhaps a nice greasy breakfast would do him a world of good, too, if he could only keep it down.  
  
It had probably been a good night. Logan had woken up next to another pretty blonde, this one was female, but men weren't unknown. He couldn't remember the name, but she hadn't been the clingy type. Once he had woken her up, she quite happily left, under his instruction to go quietly. Like most of the people he bought home, this one had thought he owned the entire mansion in which the Xavier Institute was set, and he informed her his wife was sleeping in the master bedroom, so could she please leave quietly. Good thinking for a man with a hangover.  
  
If truth be told, Logan was fed up of bringing home interchangable beauties and not remembering what had happened with them. Not that it really mattered; it was always exactly the same sequence with people who looked exactly the same. Logan seemed to have a type, judging by who woke up in his bed. Women: Willowy, blonde, big boobs, IQ of about 20. Men: Willowy, blond, big dick, IQ of about 20. Some wanted to cuddle and sulked when asked to leave. Some left before he woke up. Always the same.  
  
There were two people Logan really wanted, both of whom were completely out of his usual "type". The first was Ororo. This had been born out of the fact that he had known the woman for a number of years, found her beautiful, especially when she took that damn makeup off. She was a fascinating woman. Of all the times Logan had tried it on with her, and there had been quite a few over the years, he had never received more than a light peck on the lips. And Logan wanted much more. Ororo was a very sexy lady. In fact, Logan had made a pact with himself that once he had got into the eye of the storm, so to speak, he would calm down. Not fuck around. Get married. Commit.  
  
He would probably be fucking around for a very long time.  
  
And the other one was Sabretooth. Hate and passion are one and the same, and Logan wanted nothing more than to fuck his enemy. Unlike his fascination with Ororo though, this was just a little fantasy; having his enemy pleading for more was a silly little dream. Ororo had to happen at some point.  
  
After something disgustingly greasy from McDonalds and several paracetomol, Logan was feeling vaguely human again. However, he was running slightly late for training up the kids, so opted to take the shortcut.  
  
Shortcuts are notorious for being dangerous, but Logan was pretty much fearless. Nothing could harm him walking through the trees to get to the back door of the Institute. It was quite peaceful, really, with the sound of birds. If Logan had been a more romantic soul, he probably would have composed a love poem for Ororo and recited it to her. Instead, he contemplated the fact that waiting for him at the Institute was his orange spandex costume which was always a nightmare to get into and chafed like nothing else.  
  
Logan paused. There was a familiar scent. Very nearby. If he were not feeling so shitty, he would have probably noticed it quite some time ago. He had just enough time to release his claws when he was pounced on, from behind, by his old adversary.  
  
It was a fight similar to any other they had had. Vicious. Violent. And thoroughly pointless. Both mutants possessed a healing ability. They were entirely evenly matched, and so it was stalemate. They fought. Neither would die. Both would heal. One would slink away, admit defeat for the time being. But it would always happen again.  
  
Today, due to Logan's lowered ability, it appeared that Sabretooth would triumph. The hairball had him pinned to the ground, unable to move. Logan closed his eyes and braced himself for more pain. A hangover and a mauling. Not a great way to start the day.  
  
But the pain never came. Logan opened his eyes and stared right back into Sabretooth's. Saw confusion and turmoil. The larger mutant got up and walked away.  
  
Saved. 


	3. Part 3

Why had Victor walked off? He didn't have a clue. But then these days nothing was certain except pain. Destroying Wolverine would have been a way to get over the pain, he knew that. What had stopped his hand? It would have been ever so slightly healing for Wolverine to suffer pain.  
  
Victor suffered pain every day.  
  
He was angry. The rage was building up inside him, and he knew that when he got like that nobody was safe. Why had he been such a coward? Walking away from one's problems was never the right thing to do. One should always confront one's demons.  
  
Mrs P. had finally noticed the tip that was Victor's room. Bitching at him. Could she not see the fact that Victor was furious and she was putting herself in danger. He should warn her. Tell her to leave him alone for now. Maybe even chuck him out.  
  
"Mrs P., not now."  
  
"And another thing, Mr Creed, I want you to pay for all that damage. I shan't send you away, I would just like to be fully reimbursed. Honestly! It's a good thing I didn't put my sister's old mirror in there, the mess you made of that! Do you honestly feel such behaviour is acceptable? Do you?"  
  
And suddenly the rage took over. As always, everything was shrouded in a red mist as Victor lashed out on the old bitch. Saw the shock on her face as she fell, hit her head. She wasn't dead yet, that would need to be dealt with. Despite the viciousness of his actions, during these rages Victor felt so calm. He was built to do this.  
  
Soon she was dead. Victor knew this because he had completely eviscerated the bitch.  
  
He had killed before. Sometimes in self defence. Sometimes for business. Never without reason. Until now. Yet all death must have a purpose. This death had to have a reason, as did any other.  
  
Making a reason came to Victor as naturally as anything. He had heard of telling the future through the reading of entrails. Might just work.  
  
He squinted long and hard at the organs, but could only see meat.  
  
And finally an image came to him. Wolverine.  
  
*  
  
Victor awoke drenched in sweat. The dream had been disturbing, but he knew that it had been just that: a dream. Very vivid, but it had happened before. Many times before. Wolverine was driving him insane.  
  
He had never been what would be called stable, but as these feelings had manifested, he had been at least vaguely able to function. Life had been simpler back then. And there was no way of going back.  
  
*  
  
Logan didn't dwell too long on what had happened. He never did. Just move on, see what would happen next. And after a day of hard work, it was time to go back to the bar, drink some more, unwind a bit and meet new people. And fuck them. If that didn't happen, he would get morose about Ororo, sit in the kitchen nursing a bottle of Jack Daniels.  
  
Tonight was of the former category. A lovely young male model called Vasily Vukov who spoke little English, and therefore conversation could be kept to a bare minimum. Which was exactly what Logan liked. As little talk as possible.  
  
The guy was amazing with his tongue. Great kisser. Logan couldn't wait to get this one home. It would be a good night. Oh yes.  
  
The walk home was slow. Punctuated by frequent kisses in shop doorways, dark alleyways. Logan thought maybe he wouldn't even get this one back to the mansion. He was certainly ready for action.  
  
The shortcut took longer than going by the roads. It was dark, there were trees, and the kid just knelt down and took Logan in his mouth. Logan's senses began to spin and once again he did not notice an ambush until it was too late. Vasily bolted. And Logan was alone to face his enemy.  
  
Sabretooth had all the usual rage in him, and more. Logan couldn't react the way he usually did. And, in one of those ridiculous fits of drunken inspiration he pushed his mouth against the other mutant's. Kissed him.  
  
To his surprise, Sabretooth responded. Passionately. Desperately.  
  
"You like that, huh, bub? Maybe you want more, you little faggot?" He was greeted by the most ridiculous little yelp from Sabretooth.  
  
And it happened, clothes torn off, breath ripping ragged in the night air. Those fucking PVC trousers took an eternity to remove. Passionate. Better than Logan could have ever expected.  
  
And then they lay together, spent, absently making conversation, and swearing a truce. 


End file.
